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TURQUOISE AND IRON 



LIONEL JOSAPHARE 



3 3 



SAN FRANCISCO 

A. M. ROBERTSON 

1902 



The UllRARY OF 

Two Cowea Received 

DEC. 10 1901 

CePVRIOHT ENTRY 

CLASS QyKXo. No. 
a % ^ •'■"^ 

COPY a. 






COPYRIGHT, 1901 
A. M. ROBERTSON 



Entered at Stationers' Hall 



The Murdoch Press 
San Francisco 



TURQUOISE AND IRON 

The innocently asure skies allure, 
Like turquoise hopes above an iron world. 

In happy passion or in mood obscure. 

The innocently azure skies allure. 

But, oh, when toiling toward a vision pure, 
The beaten body to the earth is hurled, 

The innocently azure skies allure, 
Like turquoise hopes above an iron world. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE WINGED HEART II 

THE STATUE 35 

THE ENCHANTED NIGHT 49 

THE SPLENDID EARTH 63 

YEARS 73 

THE LIPS OF EVOLUTION 79 

FAITH 81 

HALF-PAST ELEVEN 85 

BALLADE OF THE NATURAL HEART 86 

ONE OF THE WICKED , . . . 88 

MADELINE 90 

THE SUICIDE 91 

METEMPSYCHOSIS 92 

THE heart's ELECTION 93 

HER BEAUTY 94 

SORROW 95 

TO A WITTY LADY 96 

THE FLEETING DEER 97 

THE INTRUDING MEMORY 98 

GUILTLESS 99 

TO MY INK-WELL lOO 

TO A CERTAIN POET lOI 

THE FABLE I02 

TO THEE 103 



THE WINGED HEART 



THE WINGED HEART 

Haii._, thou, my far-flying heart, 

That, with rapid wings apart, 

Upward, without cause or care, 
Beatest the last possible desires of everlasting air. 

Hail, thou, wildly winging heart, 
Wheresoever, 'midst the stars or wet by falling clouds, 
thou art. 

Downward to my vacant breast, 

Come, and know me for thy nest. 
Folded be thy wings and dreams, and long be thy 
unruffled rest. 



ir 



^8^ ^ingeti H^tatt 



Softly fare thou, bleeding- ace ; 
Turn, O, turn the somber lace 
Of thy wings, thine aching wings, 
From the hues and heights of Heaven and from 
Heaven's cloudy springs. 
Slant away from that blue space, 
And the complicated highway to the leaden earth 
retrace. 
Many a heart of mickle worth, 
Through the firmamental girth 
Pierces, breaks a wing 'gainst Heaven's gate and flut- 
ters back to earth. 



12 



^Se flfllmgeti ^tatt 



It was when the tinctured rose 
'Gan unfurl its folios 
And the earth was pinkly laden, 
Was enamored and enameled with the petals, that a 
maiden 
Stepped aworld and did compose 
Weird laments and fancy lyrics of the grief that over- 
flows. 
She has worn the golden crown; 
She has pulled the dim veil down ; 
She has taken sighs from other hearts and wove them 
in her gown. 



13 



IB&e WLimzh ^eart 



How essential were her ways! 
How devout, how true her gaze — 
She whom bygones now devour, 
She who smiled when sad and did relinquish every 
pleasant hour 
With her lips glad in their praise 
And her white hand slipping slowly, sadly out of yes- 
terday's. 
Over her, O heart-bruised heart. 
With thy oozing wounds apart, 
Spread thy crumpled, humbled wings and tell the white 
face what thou art. 



14 



%it dfllfngeti ^eatt 



She has sailed from earthly piers — 

She, the maid of shrewdest fears, 

She, the frailest, palest virgin. 
She, of all, the maiden only that was thy delightful 
surgeon. 

Healing all thy wounds and sears; 
Pain departed then*as now the consolation disappears. 

Maiden, mountain, storm and star 

Death unmakes, but cannot mar 
My heart's memory of this maid resplendent as a silver 
bar. 



15 



%ie mimtt^ ^tatt 



Kisses were our marriage feast ; 

Love, our witness ; God, our priest. 

By the fervid exultation . 
Of our answers understood we the divine interrogation. 

Ah, the pain of love released! 
She, for yielding woman's bounty, took my kisses and 
deceased. 

Nuptials thus by Heaven indorsed ; 

By decree of Heaven divorced, 
She is Heaven-cursed, they say, and flown remote, 
alone, remorsed. 



i6 



Wbe mimtn l^tatt 



And the naked babe unled 
Up the stair of Heaven can tread. 
But upon that sacred way 
Would the mourning mother falter ? Would she mount 
or drop astray? 
Could she touch that gateway dread? 
Pleading to the awful Judge, " God, I have suffered ; I 
have bled." 
Could she, having trod the way? 
Could she even find the way — 
From those weighty shadows rise and lift her heart 
along the way? 



17 



'JtSt aaiittfftti t^eatt 



Vile heart, seek her out below, 

Where, in some bleak portico, 

Wails she and the darkness clips, 
Beauteous as when in lifetime all the sun shone on her 
lips. 

Pierce down to the blackest flow — 
To the curling of the fogs of inextinguishable woe. 

Thou wilt find her own heart riven 

And with iron sorrows driven — 
Iron nails of iron sorrow by my hand to her heart given. 



i8 



de (Ifllinged I&eatt 



Thou wilt know her by the grieving 
Of her martyred eyes retrieving 
All the petals of her sorrows ; 
Yearning over yesterdays and mourning mutely o'er 
tomorrows. 
And a smile her face receiving 
Will be sunken in those sorrows that are in her bosom 
heaving, 
Like a sunbeam on the ocean, 
Pleasing it with gilded motion. 
While the shadow- jungles under are as black as Hell's 
devotion. 



19 



%it Mingeli l^eatt 



Like a battle long ago, 
Pale blue shadows on the snow 
Stagger, and the dim brigade 
Soon are blackened shadows only on the snows of azure 
laid. 
Many deaths the shadows know. 
Rung out by the bells of churches and by sorrow sobs 
below. 
Bells, shake out your iron flowers, 
Rubbing, chiming from the towers. 
Let your black, melodious blossoms float about these 
dismal bowers. 



20 



^^t aoimgeti ^tatt 



No, heart, start not for below. 
O heart, up to Heaven go. 
As the sacred zephyrs go, 
Take thy course and thy attainment ; start not for the 
gloom below. 
Through the turquoise Heaven go. 
Follow not with rushing dim winds to the buried" 
caves below. 
Sigh with sigh and woe by woe, 
With thy pale companion go. 
Mingle with seraphic music, not with rumblings from 
below. 



21 



%it mimtn ^eatt 



With each airy Alp accrued, 

Summit of thy strength renewed; 

Fearing that thy flight is ending, 
In the ashen, fading distance, still assailing, still as- 
cending. 

Now the feeble winds elude. 
Glory in the joy of thy accumulated altitude. 

Fadeless are those holy sights; 

Shining are the angel flights ; 
Gleaming are the pearly cupolas and castellated heights. 



22 



^it dfllmgen ^tati 



O'er that crystal palisade, 
Now thy lighted wings persuade; 
Touch the flashes of the domes 
Of that grand and gilded city flashing with angelic 
homes. 
Look for her once was a maid : 
Gaze at every blue-eyed face among the silver wings 
arrayed. 
Balanced be thy hearty beam 
As, beyond that realm supreme, 
Thou declinest, for its frescoes are the tarnish of a 
dream. 



23 



^it mimth n^tatt 



Yet, like falcon, ere he swoops, 

Mount above the shining groups, 

And thy valiant blood reveal — 
Plunge as if thy weight were oaken and thy wings were 
strips of steel. 

Where the western heaven droops, 
Dive diagonally hellward, past the sailing of the sloops, 

Past the shadow winds unfurled, 

Where the faulty souls are hurled. 
To the basal everglades beneath the casters of the 
world. 



24 



%it mimtt} !^eatt 



Outside, on the frozen sod, 
Falls the snow, where she once trod. 
Inside, gazing o'er the sea, 
Sit I, and the freezing snowflakes pelt my frozen 
memory. 
And I think it oddly odd 
That where she and I delighted, I without her still 
should plod. 
And these frozen pains are more 
Than my spirit ever bore; 
Still the lapping, lapping waters are forever on the 
shore. 



25 



%it mimtri ^eatt 



Still the living, living soul 

Pines within its human hole. 

And, without the boldened knife, 
Sits that hideous, tortured thing, that tortured cripple, 
human life. 

T is a serpent's fangy jole, 
And the foldings of its tail still in the cursed future roll. 

And here seek I to explain 

Why my haunted crisscross brain 
In this manor should be dwelling while my heart flies 
in the rain. 



26 



%^t WLimtt} l^eatt 



Why postpone the deathly end, 

That must come ? Or why offend 

That sweet maid for vile tomorrows ? 
"Why sit 'midst this doleful, dirgeful consultation of 
my sorrows? 

Why not with immortals blend, 
Challenge Heaven with the deed and on the wings of 
death extend — 

To that black and purple reef 

Where repineth my heart's chief, 
Where her violet apparel is the vapor of her grief. 



27 



%it dflKttffen leart 



Heart, thou weary-winged wight, 

Regulate thy wreathy flight, 

Where the lowest spirits crawl — 
Crouch and crawl the humblest shadows, in their 
creepholes by the wall. 

Draw thy dingy wings tonight 
Over every cave and distance in the tenor of thy might. 

And, within a saintly glow, 

Where the ranting horrors go. 
In a mist of palest purple find the partner of my woe. 



28 



%it Wiimt^ J^tatt 



Where the falling stars recover 
Breath, like any fallen lover, 
Where the hellish doors are slammed — 
There, along the dismal bottoms, drag the anchors of 
the damned. 
But, there also angels hover; 
As in Heaven once they shone, shine about her and 
above her. 
You will know her by the care 
Of these angels in the air. 
They have come to her all holy, and her exile they 
will share. 



29 



^^t Wimtti ^tatt 



Soft, I hear the angels speaking; 

Fires the blackened sky are streaking; 

There 's a death-wreath on my floor. 
Death is with his reckless knuckles rattling on my 
lockless door. 

Ghosts their ghastly mates are seeking. 
Frantic with their messages, are wires from Heaven 
windily shrieking. 

Death is dunning me and knows 

What a mortal always owes. 
I submit my soul to glory and my castle to the snows. 



30 



^6e mimtn i^tatt 



Heart, ere yet the morning ray 

Shouts another hateful day, 

Take me on my last career. 
For your coming I am waiting but not hesitating here. 

Soon your winging ends for aye ; 
Lift, heart, lift, ah lift thy lagging plumes and show thy 
breast the way. 

To that sunless haunted shore 

Once again your strength implore; 
Think of her there and, as fast as I can follow, fly 
before. 



31 



THE STATUE 



THE STATUE 

I. Dissatisfaction 

Hacked into human shape, the shapely stone 
Was now a woman, rigid, cold and bright. 

In loveliness alone. 

There lived my blows in white; 
There stood the noble work to beauty worn 
By the black chisel out of iron bom; 
Stood there, ah, stood there once, in marble grace, 
Until, with eyes to grand perfection sworn, 
I found a vague defect upon the face. 

And scarcely was the foam 
Of inspiration dry upon my lips. 

Began my hands to roam 

On more ecstatic trips 
About that quarried woman, who should seem, 

When all should have been done, 

The thought with which she was begun, — 
Immortal product of a mortal's dream. 



35 



^8e fbtatm 



To be admired 
By men inspired, 
By men of art required, 
By men of Heaven hired 
To teach the soul to speak. 
Then lifted I my human hands, to soothe 

Or save or seek 
A more fanatic beauty on the cheek 

Of her so smooth — 
An indefinable ideal define. 

And make her seem divine. 

II. The Greater Effort 
At once the bruising workmanship renewing. 
Here I a turning took, a slow curve bended. 
With vim, the marble-meated virgin hewing, 

Full wistfully I blended — 

Proudly did glorify — 
What was a smile with what (if stone could breathe) 

Would have been thought a sigh. 
High did my steamy inspiration seethe 

And low fell I: 
A rap, a scrape, a spark, a flint — O, curses ! 



36 



%it fetatue 



That iron should be sharp and beauty soft ! 
My heart squeezed gloomily; my hopes, in hearses, 
Were dragged, oh, not aloft. 

III. Destruction 

That lily-limbed embodiment of balms, 
How it arose of rock, so slow in making. 
Implored with fury, solemnized with psalms. 

And yet so fast in breaking! 
Once more I malleted the stone to form 

Without a flaw ; 
But smaller now within a whitened storm 
Of chips, that image took the chisel's law. 
And then awhile subliming its perfection, 

I fractured it again. 
Again I wrought the image's correction, 

And cracked it then. 
Another smaller effigy then froze 

Within the flinty snows. 
Tottered, survived the torment of my blows. 

And lovely was as when 
Its larger beauty on my sight arose. 



37 



^it statue 



But slighter, shorter, frailer 'neath my knock, 
Still beautiful, but still with some new fault, 
Appeared that cold, incorrigible rock 

My knife could not exalt. 
Erelong my sweating fancy found my lips 
Bemoaning the remaining stock, 
A fund of rubbish, wanton mess of chips 

In the infernal gloom : 
There was no room 

Behind the broken lock. 

IV. The Song 
Then she who was the pattern of that stone 

Came forth and spake 
To me whose grisly, greedy sorrow, thrown 
Upon the floor, lay there in beauty's sake. 
Sweet were her words, and when those words went 

wrong. 
Sweetly her voice consoled me with a song. 
Her notes were like the liquid moonlight there 

Upon my woe. 
Or like a flock of holy doves that bear 
Their whiteness to and fro. 



38 



%it statue 



Soft as from dell remote 
The consolation from her cordial throat! — 
The vocal joy of multiple rejoicing, 
The voluble delight of rapid voicing. 

Up, up the romping scale 

The choral notes prevail 
In rivers of immaculate libation, 
In channels of melodious undulation. 
The room and I, with her own voice propelled, 

Through earth and air extended ; 
And like a boat with onward prow unquelled, 

Glided when she had ended. 

V. Conscience 

On, on, on, on, thou spectral touch of song ! 

That grievous tune prolong ; 
Prolong thy dull, deluding arms, 
That give their opium and white illusions. 
No ; no ; we pause, and thy fallacious charms 
Hold me no more within their mock seclusions. 



39 



%it statue 



Away ! Awake ! 
No more that wistful, dreamy sing-song shake ; 
No more of that false-eyed, adulterous art ; 
No more the poppy, musk and incense warm 

From thy exhaling swarm 
Of ravishments to lull me and impart 
This honeysuckle fragrance to the veins 

Entwined about my heart. 
O, cease, thou ; I would rather bear my pains ; 
Thy solace is another form of grieving. 
A finer anguish dims thy finer strains ; 

And music is deceiving. 
O, come no more with philterous relieving, 
For thou, like steamy air on hot-house flowers- 
For thou, like amber rains and scented showers- 
For thou, like infant in the milky bowers 

Of tender mother-breast. 
Art rich in something not quite manifest. 



40 



Ufie statue 



O, thou canst warm our love to its confessing ; 
And thou canst Hft the soul that is unblessed ; 

But canst not give a blessing 
That will forever keep the heart at rest, 
Untaunted with thy all-too-short caressing. 

VI. Regret 

And then my patience burst. 

As then my blood reversed, 
Encountering the fainting brain pell-mell : 

I groped as one accursed — 
From Heaven flung to Hell and then by Hell 

Damned lower still, 
For letting sorrow listen to that knell, 

That woman's thrill, 
When I had battered beauty to the ground 
And then, to reconcile the deed so ill, 

Had hearkened to a sound. 
As if a song could trill divine absolving 

And the forgiveness mild 
To him, who in a raving art revolving, 

Murdered his chisel's child. 

Stained with regret, and wild, 

My self myself reviled. 

41 



%it statue 



And thus bereft, 
And suffering in every wayward cleft 
Of thought and gloom, 
I left the room. 

VII. The CathedraIv Organ 

The huge cathedral was at prayer that night; 
The sacred ceiling spoke of Heaven's might. 

Rained on with light, 
Devoutly down the velvet-padded aisle. 

Assailed with terrors vile, 
That flapped their flimsy wings in awkward flight 

For many a crowded mile, 
I strode, and, near the organ, sat contrite. 
Another caliber of music shot 
Upon my melody-tormented ears. 
Appalled me deeply where the song had not 

And seemed to shake the tears. 
Cohorts of chords from some abysm profound, 

The holy air bestrid. 

Then as if backward bid. 
Terrific tubes of smashing music did 

Infest the air with sound. 

42 



%it statue 



Shout, shriek, stop and advance and upward, ho ; 

Rear notes the fore did shove. 

And all were souls escaped below 

To shout the joy above. 
Then suddenly demoralized, they fell 

All disarrayed, 
With little stops and many a frightened yell, 

As if they were afraid. 
But all these warrior notes returned with whom 

Could in their ranks find room; 
All had survived complete annihilations. 
Born with a burst a breath before their doom, 
Came out with steel and gold, strength, pomp and 
plume. 

And decked with vines of variations. 
Music is joy; 
A single note is joy, because it lives 
On air that one proud living moment gives : 

A moment will destroy. 



43 



%it statue 



VIII. The Invisible IdeaIv 

Once more away ! 
No more, with gaudy sound, my soul betray ; 
No sound shall kiss or kill my sin today. 

My obstinate regret 

Still does desire to fret. 
Music with it provokes a gentle fray 

That makes the soul forget. 
It tells the soul that sorrow is no debt ; 
With sound for prayer, the soul forgets to pray. 
Thereat, again I found myself at home ; 

The singer sang no more, 
But told me not to let my fancy roam 

Beyond the human door. 
She told me Heaven has no bluer skies. 

No gladder golden floor, 
Than I may see with still my earthly eyes, 

And might have seen before. 

But oh, while we are learning 

The meaning of our yearning, 
Who has not wept while Heaven did refute 
His statue's claim to godly attribute? 



44 



%it statue 



Since not with entire godliness 

Did God the human visage knock, 

Can human hammers, thinking to excess, 

Inscribe upon a rock 
Divinity which they do not possess 
Within their own diviner God-made stock ? 

IX. The Kiss 

Oh, no, — she said, she who had lately sung — 
With fertilizing grief thou art combined, 

And thence thy vision sprung. 
With too much world our faces are unkind ; 
Art is the countenance of a lovely mind. 
And thy courageous mind hath wildly hung 
To Heaven's ever-swinging chandelier. 
But now from it are thy poor fingers wrung. 

And thou art here. 
Yet be not vexed nor lonely in thy heart : 



45 



^6e fbtatut 



Thy soul is not the mutilated stone ; 
Stronger than it and statelier thou art; 
Thy efforts grander than a world of art. 

Thou dost not grieve alone. 
With that, she kissed me, and her lips expressed 
A thrill of life with love and beauty blessed. 

More queenly than all art 
Beseeched by us of incense-bearing heart — 
More true than melody from holy throat — 
More holy than the organ's aching note — 

Sweeter than musky roses — 
More sweet than the dew that on them reposes — 
Sweeter by far than the droj) that escapes 

Out of a bale of roses — 
More sweet than summer shades or pulp of grapes — 
Sweet past the sweetness of reward of toil 
At evening hour when limbs and cares uncoil — 
Sweeter than stillness when sweet airs embay 
The zephyrs that from thinking souls take way — 
Sweeter and greater than the praise of men — 
Greater and sweeter than the grief's uplifting when 
The grief is tender, are — come, love, thy lips again. 



46 



THE ENCHANTED NIGHT 



THE ENCHANTED NIGHT 

Bring these things to me : 
Opals and tuberoses. 

For we cannot flee 
From the evil that the villain gem encloses 
Nor the life-exhausting odors that the flower composes. 

Purple, crimson flowers 

Tell of nimble joys 
In celestial bowers — 
Fields and grand abodes inhabited by boys, 
Who, with darling folly, dance among their changing 
toys. 

Flowers falsely painted ! 
Wanton is their dress ; 

Lewdly are they tainted. 
For, the pretty happiness which they profess 
Is a circumstance of glory I do not possess. 



49 



%it (CncSanteti3il^(ff6t 



Bring me, sitting lonely, 
Flowers that like souls 
Live by moonlight only. 
Lifting moonlit faces out of coffin-holes, 
Where the air with hurting knells and ghastly odor 
tolls. 

For tonight I sicken, 
Since I am alone; 
And my pulses thicken 
When I tell my Sorrow you are not my own : 
You, my pale and golden queen, are absent from my 
throne. 

Come tonight, for you 

May not keep me long. 
Years are short and few : 
As we vaguely twist them. Fate may tie them wrong. 
Or the brow-bound singer, pausing, may forget his 
song. 



50 



%it2€nt^anttKBiQit 



When you sit compiling 

Memories and tears, 
You may ask one smiling 
Moment from the snowfall of the deep-laid years, 
Or one song request from Time when Time no longer 
hears. 

Come, then, live this year. 

In it we shall crush 
All that we revere. 
While the cheek of Life is not too dry to blush. 
Let our blushes warm the summer till our Time says 
" hush ! " 

We shall use them all, 

All these, rich years hence; 
But like opal small, 

They will flash, when squeezed with love and vehe- 
mence. 

To one youthful year, one gem of lifelong recompense. 



51 



^it (CncSanteti Mi^U 



In this gem of time, 
We shall live excess; 

And this year sublime. 
Like a hand of meek and tender holiness, 
Will be laid on other years as one year's long caress. 

In the bath of dawn, 

Let our loves immerse — 
Up and down and drawn 
Crosswise each way through the clanging universe — 
While the good ones bless and while opposing sinners 
curse. 

! Love me sometimes dimly. 

As in twilight's peace. 
Love me often grimly. 
As when Honor frowns or feasting friends decrease. 
Love my sorrows too; and love me though my love 

should cease. 



52 



mt enclianttti Mi^U 



Sometimes Pleasure works 
Over ugly metals. 

Sometimes comfort lurks 
Where but few can find it. So shall we pick nettles 
Sometimes, while near by, a disregarded rose unpetals. 

Clutch me in your love 
When the vulture's aim, 

In the airs above, 
With its frenzy greater than its feathered frame. 
Like a moth, unwittingly attacks the noonday flame. 

And forget me not 

When the night-birds fly 
Through the haunted grot. 
When the satin moon is in the sapphire sky. 
And the nightingale makes Heaven's waiting harps 
reply. 



53 



W^it (EncSanted ilJirtt 



With your perfume-sated, 

Carnal lips apart — 
Sweet, ensanguinated 
Lips — what nymphlike rose's deeply bleeding heart 
Have you kissed and kept the crimson for a worthier 
art? 

As the spear-and-shielded 

Pagan loves his mate. 
As love-psalms are wielded 
From the trembling throats of maids immaculate, 
I would love and give both loves a wealth of equal 
weight. 

Be the weak deer's throat 
For my tiger jaws. 

In my great arms float 
As on high-tide rivers flutter little straws. 
Be the fainting culprit in my unrelenting laws. 



54 



Wbt CncfianttD jRigSt 



Be a tuberose pale, 

Deathlike but not dead. 

Odors chaste exhale — 
Odors that, with sweetest poisons, rock the head. 
Yes ; to me your fragrant neck is like a flower-bed. 

O, that odor sending 
Out the soul of flowers ! 

I voluptuous, bending 
Over it, remain with sense unfilled for hours ; 
And that fragile odor my poor frenzy fain devours. 

Kneel with me low kneeling 
In my robes of prayer. 

Hear me in the pealing 
Of the sacred bells in the incarnate air. 
Love me in the spirit-wounds tormented by Despair. 



55 



^it (Enc6anteti jRijj&t 



See me in earth's mud 
And the crystal skies. 

Love me when my blood 
Lavishes itself and chokes the timid sighs 
Of my pallid conscience when my pallid conscience dies. 

There are things I dream 
That I dare not live ; 

Deeds I would redeem 
From these visions. But what can repentance give 
To the mind that daily grows to dreams more sensitive. 

Sacredly your gleaming 
Topaz hair today 

Came to me here dreaming, 
Lit the ceilings of my dreams and passed away — 
Passed that weird illumination of a weird survey. 



56 



^8e (KncSanted jRigSt 



When the blue-edged cloud 

Fades in sky-blue fires, 
Summer sings out loud — 
When, through open pores, the scarlet rose perspires, 
You will find me breathing with the summer's dull 
desires. 

Bow your head and enter 
The invisible doors. 

Breathe with me the center 
Of the gilded summer. Tread the love-worn floors. 
See the golden happiness crushed from its earthy ores. 

Dance with tiptoe Pleasures. 
Excellently tread 

Fairy-chanted measures. 
Wake the morning-glory ; put the moon to bed. 
Spill the yellow powder from the poppy's drowsy head. 



57 



^Se (Encfianteb MiQit 



O, that we could name 
What we cannot see ! 

O, to put the blame 
On some evil, slipping, incompleted key 
That unlocks our pleasure at the next to last degree. 

Something ever slips 

From the well-read story ; 

Something's damning lips 
And its limbs, with frost of human hopes made hoary, 
Lie between and let no man lie close enough to glory. 

Therefore, dance no more, 

Queer-souled queen, nor smile. 
Stand where clouds restore 
Dignity and shadow down the forest aisle. 
Let me think devoutly how my queen should look 
awhile. 



58 



'atSe (EncSanUH jl^irtt 



Stand with stubborn eyes. 
Droop your lips grown pale. 

Let the frowns disguise 
Those devoted features, where the splendors fail, 
Daring while they feel the rumblings of a tragic tale. 

In the darkness, faintly 

Bound with gleaming white — 
Roses deathly, saindy — 
Still you linger, visible and living quite. 
Still are there : upon you, pallid wreaths ; around you, 
night. 

But, sweet shade, who are you ? 

Eyes, I know you not ; 
Nor do know how far you 
Came from danger-dreams or memories forgot — 
Came from dreams or life, desire, dead love, regret, or 
what. 



59 



THE SPLENDID EARTH 



THE SPLENDID EARTH 

The gloomy spirit of expiring day 

Walked on the waters to the purple hills ; 

Deserted Heaven locked its portals gray, 

As twilight flowed through Fancy's water-mills. 

Distinctly on the heavy-silver sky, 

An eagle, seemingly forsaken, crawled. 

Soft airs implored the echoes to reply, 

And tinkling waves to one another called. 

Its love the heart relinquished with a sigh 
Unto the murmurs of the moving bay. 

A magic ship, as daylight shades went by. 
Went somewhere too, on linen wings away. 

That sigh which love of beauty did impart 

Was like the day's when day, with tiring breath. 

And in the arms of twilight and her heart. 
Succumbed alive in ecstasies of death. 



63 



^Je SpIenHin Carts 



But, oh, ye lovers of complexion chaste, 
Ye flashing hearts with idols fair and golden, 

Ye arms adoring Art's camellia waist, — 

Your lives are young ; but earth is young and olden. 

Our planet reeling through the universe 

Carries no more divinity than duty; 
But man, through lifetime reeling toward his hearse. 

Sings of himself in terms of passing beauty. 

You bid your masters of the song to send 

Their souls into the stars; the light, the chimes, 

The bliss, the perfume of the spheres to blend 
Within the rapture of their tipsy rhymes. 

The poet lauds the rainbow, when the rains 
Have swilled the pools about his murky feet. 

When evil breezes turn our weather-vanes. 
He gives his harp to zephyrs more discreet. 



64 



^Je &plmli(ti (Cattfi 



Some lowly prayer his tearful Muse could help; 

Assailed by shrieks in misery begot, 
He leaves the shanty and the beggar's whelp 

And sings to angels who require him not. 

A lofty bard once tuned his instrument 
Below the scale ; was honored for his lays ; 

But was, when some recalled the fame they lent, 
By them disliked for taking too much praise. 

Manned with a sweet-haired Bacchanalian crew, 

The ship of poetry blows gently on 
To pleasant isles and mornings hung with dew 

And bHssful hopes of dewier morns anon. 

Yet sunny flowers, daytimes of delight. 
Virgins and Venuses, desires remote. 

Wine, war and music, praises of the night. 
Are not the total throbs of Passion's throat. 



65 



%it &plen&iti (EattJ 



Full are her sobs, her melody as deep, 

The aspiration of her song as high. 
When some uneasy pauper goes to sleep 

As when a sacred pageant passes by. 

As pure the voice, though gloomier the note, 

That sings of them who, wrapped in rotting rags, 

Befoul the streets, from shade to shadow float. 
Profusions of bent wretches, hobbling hags. 

So thought the twilight pausing on the pier. 
Even unwary how the thought began; 

Therewith observed one, who had ventured near. 
In mossy tatters, standing like a man. 

He was a man, soothfast, for that his jaw 
Was not the joint of any other kind; 

There, too, his eyes, forever groping, saw 
No bottom in the darkness of his mind. 



66 



^It &plentifti Cattfi 



Insipidly, with rancid lips, he browsed 
The sweets of evening air. From bed unclean. 

Him, some belated sunbeam had aroused 
To curse the wanton beauty of the scene. 

What meaning have the colors of the rose, 

The width of wave and all the shapes of cloud, 

Around the groveling of such as those 
Who are the poisons in the mixing crowd ? 

No self-excited poem with a crown 

That makes it queenliest of the vanished years, 
Can, with soft fingers, loosen Sorrow's gown 

Or make the heart of Pity bulge with tears. 

The sandalwoods and musks of sentiment, 

Grotesque inaccuracies of desire. 
Supernal praise of subter-brutish bent. 

Can vaunt, but move no angel to admire. 



67 



'atfie &plentiiti (Eattfi 



pTom human misery there winds a strain : 

Like spiral or like spirit it can touch 
And feel the finer forms who know its pain, 

Its grief divine, its beauty lacking much. 

No lust can, like a sinner uncaressed, 

Sail with the soul upon a fall of tears. 
The little thorn that pricked a maiden's breast, 

More than the park of roses pink, endears. 

Still on the wharf the rogue perused the waves. 

Shifted his wracking skeleton awry, 
And read the rolling headstones of their graves 

Who yet below the half-seen grasses lie. 

His lifelong woe gazed on the water's woe. 

And haply thought, should he fall from the shore, 

His grief would melt with all the seas that flow, 
Nor make the burden of the ocean more. 



68 



^Se &plenditr (EattS 



He was not sanctified by heavens gray; 

For him no mate or friend of hand came home; 
His breast ne'er moved with what he could not say 

Of marble or medallion out of Rome. 

Love could not lure, nor danger make him bold, 
Nor music still his hunger with refrains ; 

No trees of twisted emerald and gold 

Could press the stupors in his leaden veins. 

The light on heaven or the shaking tree. 
Cathedrals dark with ivy of the ages, 

The swoons of love, exertions of the sea. 
Were not the pictures of his inner pages. 

He stares upon the nectars of the bay. 
And it becomes thereat a poison-bath ; 

Leans out and stares and breathes and moves away 
And stares but sees no vision in his path. 



69 



^6e g)plentiiti C^artli 



Not lifelike is he, but is yet alive ; 

The laws of God are asking for his death. 
With each drawn air his lips and eyes revive; 

His life is but the wagging of his breath. 

No hindrance give unto his leaving feet, 

Nor make philosophy upon his trail. 
When he is gone the day will be complete 

And baby stars play over twilight pale. 

So too may pass the glamour of a song 

That calls for revelry where mourners dwell, 

And seem, like that poor mortal thing gone wrong, 
A mildewed statue groping back to Hell. 



70 



SHORTER POEMS 



YEARS 

In wayward forgetfulness only, 

One night when the winds were fast, 

I unlocked an old cellar, where, sadly, 
I rummaged the trunks of the past. 

J found many things of no value, 

Many things that I should not have kept ; 

But I found the veil of a woman, 
And found I had heedlessly wept. 

Not for those who might question or judge me, 

Nor for any to understand. 
Nor for any to read and to love me. 

Nor for any to reprimand. 

But for me and the sake of a memory 
Of her for whose heart I once planned, 

I trailed the black wine o 'er the parchment. 
And wrote in a desolate hand : 



73 



^tat0 



We were lost in a sorrow peculiar, 

In the streets of a city of woe ; 
And we walked up the hills to the starlight, 

And my heart was a wandering woe. 

We strayed by a lighted cathedral, 

Whose windows were painted and long. 

1 loved all the saints on the windows, 
But my heart knew a saintlier song. 

I was youthful and mad and desirous. 

At the perilous age of a boy, 
When he feels the first man in his bosom 

And his heart is a clangor of joy. 

And while all of the bells in his bosom 
Are ringing, he does not know 

That through all of his heaven the rapture 
Is rung by the weight of his woe. 



74 



9ear0 



And she was the older and wiser, 

And she looked when she would not say — 
Looked low in the heavens with languor 

Of eyes that were shaded and gray. 

And we said our conspiracy lowly, 
While all of the stars were in tune, 

As they flashed the soft news of our loving 
To the eyes of the curious moon. 

I was lost in my heroine's tresses 

Festooned on her forehead with grace ; 

Yet, leaving the shade of the tresses, 
Was perplexed by the light on her face. 

Then a mist lowered sadly around us, 
With the luster of stars in the air. 

And settled like stars on her tresses, 
Or clusters of grapes on her hair 



75 



9^ar0 



I feared we might come, even slowly, 

To the end of our walk too soon 
To fill my delight with the beauty 

Of her hands that were white as the moon. 

We passed by the umbrage of branches. 

And over my wishes there stole 
The sanctified odor of jasmine 

As the jasmine discovered my soul. 

The scent of the jasmine went upward 

To mix with the magic of June, 
And an innocent cloud became drunken 

And reeled from the arms of the moon. 

Then we stopped, for the moon seemed unconscious. 
Like a corpse that was floating in light, 

With its necklace of pearls trailing earthward — 
Or a lily afloat on the night. 



76 



geat0 



Bewildered, we turned, and she, sighing, 
Beheld me with glimmering eyes ; 

For, though wrapped in the raiment of fashion. 
She was human as deep as her sighs. 

In a moment, the million stars flickered. 
Their places were sooty and still. 

A tempestuous current had whirled them 
From their places now somber and chill. 

That heavenly anarchy frightened 
The earth and my tremulous bride. 

When I looked for her features, they vanished. 
And the night airs remained by my side. 

What use to describe the black tragedy 
That perhaps was not meant for tears ? 

The crime of our parting was Nature's ; 
And the criminal instrument, years. 



77 



^tat^ 



It may have been death or divergence 
That solicits me nov;^ for these tears. 

Yet it seems that the only disaster 
That caused her departure, was years. 



78 



THE LIPS OF EVOLUTION 

What is that color on your lips revealing 
Itself? 'T is red, if I know red. But red 
Is only color. What quick fiend was dealing 
With your emotions when those tints o' erspread 
Your pretty lips like robins coming to be fed? 

Why should your blood with all its meaning blush ? — 
When your wild nature Science has defended 
And says that, foot for hoof and tooth for tush, 
And your slim waist of bulky flanks amended, 
You are, with modern brutes, from ancient things 
descended. 

And women who are proud within their homes 
Can argue more but prove not one cur less 
Behind them, of the yelping pack that roams 
Through their ancestral shades, while we caress 
The lithe and hairless arm half-draped in modem dress. 



79 



CSe Eip0 0t (EtJoItttion 



Of lives long since devoured we cliew the cud, 
I know. But where have you the beast's remains ? 
The baggage of what brute is in your blood 
And borne along the railway of your veins, 
That you should have the blush that to your lip attains ? 

Is that swift color on your lips a sin ? 
Or is it kindly put there for my part — 
A red light signaling the wrecks within, 
Or just a business of the sweets that start 
And travel outward from the depot of your heart? 

There may be some vile evidence on you 
Which Time has not been able to dispel. 
But when to your teased lips the tincture flew, 
No scientist with playmate lips could tell 
We rose from howling beasts or all from angels fell. 



80 



FAITH 

Forgetful child of all-remembering Death, 

Where is the comrade of the little tryst, 

Your life ? Are you contentedly assured 

The soul of you will blush again when you 

Are deep in death, that you should make of life 

A cemetery of unsocial neighbors ? 

A silent soul is reaching for your hand ; 

And you are waiting for his hand to hold 

Upon your heart, and nominate him friend ; 

To do so with no tremor of suspicion 

Or cynical reserve. While crabbed Death 

Is busy with accounts and scrutinizes 

Our lives, that none may linger very long 

To his foul credit overdue, oh you. 

To whom, by grace of loving accident. 

Is given here a snatch of years, half bad 

Before enjoyed — how often have you flung 

Both arms about your shrine, with sentiment? — 

And said : I do believe in this and, with it. 

My faith will, cheek to cheek, engage, and here 



8i 



JFaitJ 



I shall not shame to weep the wines of love 
Crushed from the snowy grapes of all that I 
Think best in me. 

Who has not vainly wished for things possessed 
In him ? Who sees no mountains in his soul 
Unclimbed by his own limbs ? What lips have not 
Demanded more than they have given, knowing 
Not why? Does any trembling heart know why 
Its longing is unfilled ? Or make itself 
An humble bridge whereon another heart 
May venture ? Say, if, answering, some heart 
Should howl a No from here to the round moon, 
Would that long word not be the silver truth ? 

Each man withholds some measure of his love : 
Leaves one branch of the chandelier unlit : 
One room within the mansion leaves unfurnished : 
The poet does not tell of all he knows : 
The singer keeps the sweetest song unsung : 
Virtue will not uncover Beauty's bosom : 
For all withhold their best. At the cold bottom 



82 



iFaitJ 



Of the heart's deepest well, there lies a drop 
Of blood — a lovelier and redder drop 
Than ever drawn with buckets of mistrust. 
All-conquering faith can get this love's best drop, 
And faith is in your own drop of this kind, 
That each with each full willing to exchange 
And each of each demanding to be given, 
And each to each refusing to begin, — 
The drop lies cold, and curdles with old age. 
We are afraid to love too hard. We fear 
Devotion may provoke the other's pride. 
Some v/oman, stern betwixt a coronet 
And throne, may take our simple courtesy 
With regal eye. Some frail bisque maid 
May take our passion's best in coquetry ; 
Or Selfishness make hay beneath our sun. 
So fails the force of love. There is no soul 
Whose crystal has no spot of jealousy : 
Whose lovelight has no blemish of suspicion. 
So, too, no woman loves with lyric passion 
The chanting heart unharmonized with doubt. 



83 



JFaitH 



But were there faith, and faith of such a kind 
As Heaven favors and the Fates applaud, 
A faith clear as the love it asks, the Owner 
Could use it as a starry wand. He could 
Enslave the hands wherever he should fancy 
To drop upon his knee. For such is faith. 



HALF-PAST ELEVEN 

Discussing love and friendship, late at night, 
We sat beyond the lamp, whose covered light 

Tinged us more tenderly than clearly. 

Her eyes demure on mine shone dearly, 
.For her emotion made them damp and bright. 

As deviously as the bees in flight, 
We stole the sweetest thought from every height^ 
For we were not in love, but merely 
Discussing love and friendship. 

Not many days in Time's ambrosial sight 
Our voices had been mixing. Such our plight, 

Though loving not, knew not how nearly 

While sadly, idly, but sincerely 
Discussing love and friendship. 



85 



BALLADE OF THE NATURAL HEART 

To me it seems a glory to excel 

Where nature placed the honor long ago. 
And I prefer the nut with hardest shell. 

The bread I eat I ask be made of dough. 

The purest white is all I ask of snow. 
And diamonds I ask in all my rings. 

All honor to the rivers when they flow ! 
I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 

When all is duly done, I feel quite well. 

Therefore I like my wagon-wheels to go. 
Lines may be straight and not be parallel. 

I want my oars about me when I row. 

Indeed^ I yearn to pay the debts I owe. 
And I respect the little bee that stings, 

Aspiring not to say "Yes," meaning " No." 
I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 



86 



^Ballatie ot tSe il^atutal l^tatt 



I wish to say "Ah ! " when a rose I smell ; 

And when I make my finger bleed, scream " Oh ! ' 
For what is pain without the right to yell ? 

Why have I tears if not to wet my woe ? 

I like all things to do the best they know, 
If but a leech and faithfully it clings. 

There 's beauty in the peacock and the crow. 
I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 

ENVOY. 

Prince, bring me*not bouquets where flowers grow. 

On beggars I want rags ; crowns on my kings. 
I love to see the peasant use his hoe. 

I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 



87 



ONE OF THE WICKED 

At a ghastly flame, where the coals were gold, 

He tempered his dull-red heart. 
With a grisly hold on his heart, he sold 

Its blood for his leading part. 

He gave his heart for these golden coals. 

And he gave without a groan. 
He filled up holes with other men's souls 

And rammed them down with his own. 

He fed the fat of his friends with fat, 
And they drank of his foaming wine. 

A child he begat, and he buried the brat 
When his sins were ready to dine. 



88 



flDne Dt tit dfllicfteti 



But he starved the bones of his men who dug 
His wealth from the Poor Man's hand : 

While many his thug Death snatched for a plug 
For the graves of the Rich Man's land. 

The hunger of mothers he took for a jest ; 

He laughed when the Poor Man cried. 
During life he was blessed with a wealth of the best 

But they damned him when he died. 



89 



MADELINE 

Madeline, maiden of dreams, 
Pale is the face of the moon, 

What dost thou think of its beams ? 

What is that message that seems 
Music of mystical tune ? 

Phantoms and pearls from its gleams 
Over the garden are strewn — 
Pearls in thy moonlight of June, 

Madeline. 

Maiden, — with many weird themes 
Moonlight in summer night teems. 

Out of this moonlight are hewn 
Bodies of intricate schemes, 

Dreams that thou dreamest too soon, 

Madeline. 



90 



THE SUICIDE 

She seems a form created for the bards. 

Low is her brow, but high the well-kept hair. 
With saintly eyes that know the Devil's cards, 

She gazes in a glass ; and, half aware 

Of her reflection, watching dimly there, 
She sees her death; but death she disregards. 

Light as a swan, she moves, that even air 
The gentle motion of her frame retards. 
She opens now a case ; consults a dial, 

And satisfies herself it is the time. 
Out of a drawer takes a poison-vial. 

Without a sigh or omen of the crime. 
For she was one who lit her lamp at noon 
And loved the dayHght of an evil moon. 



91 



METEMPSYCHOSIS 

When I was duchess of a rich domain 

And you, a powdered page below my throne — 
When I, a cloud, across the sky was blown, 

And you were lover in a garden lane — 

When I was queen and you, within my reign. 
Were supplicant with plaint of humble tone — 
When I a willow was, by river grown, 

And you, a fish, did in my shade remain, 

You sometimes upward looked and you seemed grateful 
To me who stretched the favor o 'er your head. 

I saw no glance of anger fierce and hateful 
Upon your brow to civil manner bred. 

Mow I, a fish, you ply me with a hook 

Caught in my mouth, and wrench me from my brook. 



92 



THE HEART'S ELECTION 

If your heart's government were made by vote, 
And voters were the crowding drops of blood, 

Each with a willful franchise to denote 
The ruler of thyself, as fast they scud 
Upon the pulse, how would the blushing flood 

The nomination of my suit promote? 

Would they elect my name with every thud 
Of the exulting heart? Or would they float 

Sometimes dividedly, with other names — 

Some drops for me and some for my rejection? 

Oh, tell me they will rush with loud acclaims 
And make me hero of their red election. 

Tell me their vote is, and their animus. 

With every beat, for me unanimous. 



93 



HER BEAUTY 

The substance of her beauty ! Can I tell ? 

Shall I describe a thing without a name ? 

The most religious words I have would maim 
Her elegance, that shone forth to dispel 
The airs before, as music from a bell. 

Her beauty was the tenure of a frame 

Soft as the drooping-tuHp ; 't was the claim 
That earth makes now and then for those who dwell 
Beneath the circuit of the sun's reflection. 

That they may gaze upon a human psalm • 
And call the music of its form perfection. 

Her beauty was devout ; and, though 't was calm. 
'T was almost audible ; but low. And she 
Walked o 'er the earth as in a minor key. 



94 



SORROW 

Nine webs of straggling rivers wrap our earth 
And, with intent the oceans to dilute, 
Their frayed ends to the oceans contribute. 

But their few glossy ripples are the mirth 

Of foam-besprent Old Ocean. Nothing worth 
Are their few quarts, and nothing constitute 
Their wholesome pourings, though they prosecute 

The rotund ocean from its poles to girth. 

So do the streams of joy around me pour. 
Endeavoring my sorrow to abate, 

That, like the ocean, is too salt a shore. 
To sweeten with such mild adulterate ; 

But takes the many rivers for its fare 

And still is green and bitter everywhere. 



95 



TO A WITTY LADY 

You are not beautiful. Unlike the spring, 

You come not wrapped in flowers pink and sunny. 

Sometimes, alas, on mortgages and money 
Your thoughts embrace — and many a bonded thing. 
And zounds, great dame ! your lofty wit doth wring 

The noses of all men and make us funny. 
Sometimes your language savors of sweet honey ; 
Sometimes your honey savors of a sting. 
And yet, I 'd ask it all : your rapid-firing eyes. 

Your hasty brain, your heart well-timed and slow, 
Your Hps, where satire sits and fancy lies, 

Your hair piled up on many pins below, — 
But that I fear your sin your wit provokes 
To make my sins pincushions for your jokes. 



THE FLEETING DEER 

Prithee, why run before me, foolish deer? 

Gone on your limbs full strong though seeming frail, 
And hoofs with hoofs contending in your fear, 

You dash into the distance and thence fail 

From weary sight. Amazement, in your trail. 
Knows not how far what lately was so near. 

Timidly as a virgin takes the veil, 
You take the valley in your fright sincere. 
I did not mean to frighten you from play. 

Nor harm you, zephyr-limbed one. Why abhor 
Me ? Have you seen me ever ? Why away 

Before me, whom you ne'er looked on before? 
Is 't through your ancestors some hunter's yell 
Remembering, you fear all men ? Farewell ! 



97 



THE INTRUDING MEMORY 

What ! Comest thou again, O memory vile ? 

'T was thou that shot'st across my troubled thought. 
Wherefore again to flit and ban awhile 

Along these rooky timbers? No wish brought 

Thee here. What art thou in my castle caught ? 
If ghost, begone ; depart thee many a mile. 

If healthy thing, be feared to stay for naught. 
I let thee weep, but sanction not thy smile. 
Listen ! and, while my frightened heart I prop, 

Depart, and ever from this realm abstain. ' 
Unbreathing substance, from my eyelids drop, 

Find thy way out ; grope not about my brain. 
Begone, with all the agonies that ail thee, 
Or, ghastly shape, I banish, I exhale thee. 



98 



GUILTLESS 

If there were twenty suns upon the sky, 

Yea, more, and millions more ; in sooth, were there 
As many suns as stars, all plastered where 
The lonesome discus now outstares the eye. 
And could our human sight the blaze defy 
And look upon the incandescent air 
As now we see beneath the single glare 
Of what we have there shining, — then would I,- 
Then would I fling my heart into the light 

And, being there, would say to ye around : 
Read ye the crime : declaim the wrong and right, 

Wherever right be seen or vv^rong be found. 
And if the sight a single crime reveals. 
Crush ye the heart beneath your vengeful heels. 



99 



TO MY INK-WELL 

Thou blotty bottle, bottle stained and grim, 

Thou imp, thou gnome, a moody friend art thou. 
And yet thyself I would not trade, I vow, 

For golden ink-decanter with a rim 

Of pearls and decorations wreathed and slim. 
Now tell me, ugly boy with inky brow. 
Of some unwritten thoughts, which you allow 

To dream awhile within your tranquil brim. 

How many black imaginings are there 
Waiting to crawl out for my livelihood ? 

Phantasmas, whims, a poet's morbid ware, 

Capricious thoughts, perhaps misunderstood? — 

All liquid yet and blended in their well ; 

Some will be born ; how many, who can tell ? 



TO A CERTAIN POET 

The sow, her snout upheaving from the mire, 

Can smell the approaching breeze. 'T is well ! But 
whose 
And where 's the fiery nostril can acquire 

Opinion of the future? — if its news 

Ever blows out beforetimes to amuse 
Or make a disappointment of desire. 

How fares his fame with famous retinues ? 
Will it on wings of purple flame aspire ? 
An illustration of the heaven its fire ? 

Or weary sparkle, crawling like a fuse ? 
How will the minions of the Mint admire 

What does the color of their gold accuse ? 

And, each to each's Hking, will it use 

Astronomers to stare or bugs peruse ? 



lOI 



THE FABLE 

They told me it is fable ; that it blew 

With uncredentialed winds from olden time. 
Still seemed it that, with sentiment sublime, 

This fiction made the truthful seem untrue. 

They said it is a shadow of the few 
Left by a fervid sun in fervid clime — 
The sun of myth is censured with the crime, 

When leaving us, of leaving shadows too. 

Long was the night when, to the night's long woe, 
This tale came up the back-stairs of my heart. 

It would not answer questions, nor would go ; 
And I would not command it to depart. 

I will not with the clever crowds applaud 

Who question beauty while they deal in fraud. 



I02 



TO THEE 

Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow ; 

But hark, thou, to the grief-imprisoned song ; 
Forgive the mute camellia for its woe. 

With weighty passions, quick words do not go ; 
Great love is like a silence, grim and strong ; 
Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow. 

About my gloomy head thy light arms throw ; 

Bear with the frowns that to my love belong 
Forgive the mute camellia for its woe. 

On my heart pattereth my love, like snow. 

That works no sound upon a belfry's gong. 
Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow. 



103 



%o %itt 



Forgive these lips that when they speak, speak low : 
They do not charge the guilty earth with wrong. 
Forgive the mute camellia for its woe. 

I and that flower smile not to and fro. 

Find us not in the jewels of the throng. 
Forgive the mute camellia for its woe ; 
Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow. 



104 



(•^The Lion at the WeW^ 

BY 

LIONEL JOSAPHARE 

i6mo. Bound in boards. 



Price^ ^oc net 



**The ideal of the poet seems not to have been the Greek con- 
ception of the high-heroic temper of Herakles in his encounter 
with the lion of Kithairon, or the weaponless Polydamos meeting 
with physical prowess the lion of Mount Olympus. The book 
illustrates the pitiful picture of want and fear in the presence of 
force. It is famishing poverty at the gate of need, while the sup- 
pliant imposes on himself the hard discipline of overcoming fear 
by the strength of the spirit. The author has learned much of 
the stalwart use of words, and has used them to express psychologi- 
cal suggestions, although he uses rhyme with a reckless opulence 
of curiously erratic method." — The Los Angeles Times, 

•*A poem of which the theme is the gradual, physical and men- 
tal exhaustion of a man in the presence of fear. It descants on 
the beauty of terror, a singular expression of emotion. There is 
no doubt of its earnestness or its strength, but it is rough and even 
uncouth in a disdain of ordinary rules of poetic writing." 

— Louisville Courier-yournal. 

'* It is a pity that space lacks in which to quote from these 
verses. They frequently touch a profundity of pathos hardly to be 
described." — Neiv Orleans Picayune. 

A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 



"California Violets'''' 

A BOOK OF VERSE 



BY 

GRACE HIBBARD 



Price^ $l.OO net 



Many of these verses have already appeared in vari- 
ous periodicals and have been so well received that it 
is thought advisable to publish them in this permanent 
form. Although the verses are mostly in the minor 
key, and contain the pathos that comes straight from 
a heart that has felt great sorrow, there is sunshine 
illumining every page. 

A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 



"T'he Dead Calypso'''' 

AND OTHER VERSES 



BY 

Louis A. Robertson 



Five hundred copies printed, and type distributed. lamo. Cloth, 



Frice^ $1.50 net 

<*His verses show the hand of a man of great literary 
attainments; a man whose mentality has been culti- 
vated to the highest pitch, and yet whose soul is, and 
ever has been, the soul of a born poet. In expression 
and form Mr. Robertson's verses are in themselves 
perfect; yet this mechanical excellence, if we may so 
express it, attracts no attention to itself. The lines 
run so smoothly and the thoughts are so beautifully ex- 
pressed that it is the intent of the poetry and not its 
form that makes the lasting impression on the reader's 
mind." — The Call, San Francisco. 

''The book has fire and grit in it. It has also much 
tenderness and sadness. It runs the gamut from the 
most spiritual aspiration to the rage of desire defeated 
in satiation. In the matter of form all the verses are 
exquisitely done. In the matter of feeling the in- 
tensity is poignant. Always the song has color to it, 
has blood and bone and flesh and soul woven through 
it. Mr. Robertson is a lover of the sonnet and his 
book contains a dozen poems in that form that are ot 
exquisite workmanship."— T'i'^ St. Louis Mirror. 

A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 



''''Songs from Bohemia'*^ 



BY 

Daniel O'Connell 



Edited by Ina D. Coolbrith, with a biographical sketch 
by William Greer Harrison 

One thousand copies printed and type distributed, 
izmo. Bound in gray boards. 



Price y $1.50 net 

"All lovers of good fellowship will enjoy the collec- 
tion of poems published under the title * Songs from 
Bohemia,' for in the author, Daniel O'Connell, they 
will find a kindred soul. Not the least interesting 
part of the book is the biographical sketch of O'Con- 
nell by William Greer Harrison, which precedes the 
verses. Love of nature and love of life radiate from 
the pen of one who drank deeply of both. The verses 
embody gladsome lightness, tender regret, quiet happi- 
ness and resignation." — The Boston Times. 

**His poems are of surprising quality, and fill one 
with shame that he knows so little of the poet, and 
with wonder that the latter is not more of a familiar 
figure in American letters. That he is no mere 
versifier is evident from every page." 

— The Chicago Record-Herald. 

A. M. Robertson : San Francisco 



''Idyls of El Dorado'^ 



BY 

CHARLES KEELER 



Decorated with designs from the California wild flowers 
by Louise Keeler. 

l6mo. Bound in art boards. Limited edition. 



Frice, - $i.2S 



"They make tasteful books in San Francisco. * Idyls of El 
Dorado,' by Charles Keeler, with its rubricated title-page, artistic 
tail-pieces, and Japanesque cover-design is a fit setting for any poet's 
rhymes. Mr. Keeler is deeply penetrated by the myths of his 
adopted land and that strange spell she lays even upon the alien 
spirit." — The Milwaukee Sentinel. 

" Mr. Charles Keeler celebrates the grandeur and loveliness of 
his surroundings. He sings to the ocean and the redwood-tree, to 
the Alaskan glacier and the canyon severing the hill, to the dove 
mourning and the flower found in the woods." — The Neiv Tork 
Sun. 

'*Mr. Keeler's verses have the real swing and rush indicating a 
fullness and richness of thought sometimes difficult to limit and 
condense by the rules of rhyme." — The Outlook. 



A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 



"A Season^ s Sowing'^ 



CHARLES KEELER 

Decorated by Louise Keeler. 
Thin octavo. Bound in ornamental boards. 



Price J - $1.2^ 



**From far-off California comes a notable piece of ornamental 
printing in 'A Season's Sowing.' 'Together have we toiled for 
beauty's sake,' says the dedication, * and all our labor has not been 
in vain.' It is by no means in vain." — The Philadelphia Times. 

"The taste, the artistic sense and skill, the mechanical handi- 
work embodied in this little book equal the best fruits of English 
education. Nothing better of its kind has appeared within our 
knowledge this season, and San Francisco may put another feather 
in its publishing cap." — The Literary JVorld^ Boston. 

** Mr. Charles Keeler is a lover of Nature, and in the cheery 
bits of song so quaintly framed in these decorated pages he gives 
delicate expression to many a conceit suggested by birds, trees, 
plants, flowers, and the play of sun and weather." — The Independ- 
ent^ Neiv York. 

"The designs are beautiful and striking. The verses, too, are 
delightfully original. Each poem is only a paragraph long, and 
with few exceptions each verse is a gem of thought. Some of the 
poems are brief epigrams expressed in verse. It is seldom that so 
much wit is embodied in verses that wear so uniformly serious an 
aspect." — The Beacon^ Boston. 

"Each of the short poems expresses a single thought, sometimes 
a bit of homely wisdom, quaintly worded, sometimes a jubilant 
assertion of the wider faith and its triumph. Many are calls for 
truer courage and self-reliance, and express a firm assurance in the 
possibilities opened to the strong, aspiring soul." — The Christian 
Register^ Boston. 



A. M. Robertson 



San Francisco 







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